Kupolinés

After the evening meal, backs began to straighten and eyes brighten. A shower had crossed Carraig Dubh shortly before supper, but the evening sky was now cloudless. Giedre was up to her arms in water when Stanislovas came to her and told her that the dishes could wait until the morning.

The “colonists” were being given back their shamans to go with the priests that had accompanied them to the vast “compound” in the Carriger mountains. The day before, a wagon had come from the fortress, bringing him back from prison, an emaciated figure in remnants of town clothes besieged by eager men and women begging him for a charm against midges or a word from their dead relatives. He’d been hustled away by soldiers before Stanislovas and Ursula had got to him.

Those who had been older children and adults when they had been deported talked all day in the fields and all night in their cabins about finally being allowed to practise magic again without the fear of being birched for it – or worse. The first solstice festival, Kupolinés, permitted in ten years of exile had only been announced a week ago, not time enough to organise anything large.

The glade where the festival was to take place was a mile away. As dusk fell, the inhabitants of four villages were all on the road together, dressed as much as they could in old town clothes or motley made out of them. Children picked flowers from the roadside and decorated their hair. Men and women whispered amorously to each other. Giedre trotted alongside her adoptive parents, absorbing their excitement without quite knowing what to expect.

There was a curious glow in the air as they approached the priests’ grove. Respectfully allowing the shaman his space, the clergy they had been permitted to keep from their own indigenous worship of Lapiukas stood to one side as the villagers entered the space. Visiting priests of Lugh, the local Galtarai name for the fox-god, stood by their side. Giedre resentfully eyed the soldiers feeding a massive bonfire; the shaman was meditating by it, his rags replaced with clean, new traditional dress and a fur hat styled to look like a fox, the image of their fox-god. Someone behind her muttered “witch” at him disparagingly, but most were smiling.

The moon rose over the mountain to the west. An owl hooted. As if on cue, the shaman stood, raising his arms to the sky. Stragglers still poured into the glade, but everyone fell silent. “protecting” the grove.

The oak tree around which the shaman had tied garlands of flowers erupted with the lights. At first, Giedre thought them merely the fireflies she’d seen on previous visits to the grove, but they twinkled with varying colours, which fireflies didn’t do. With the clatter of wings, the lights took off into the inky sky, scattering to the four winds.

Murmurs started up. The question on everyone’s lips was: Are we freed?

(Image texture courtesy of .Brooke.Anderson., flickr, ‘T 85’)

Green Goblin and Golden Dragon

A prompt from /r/worldbuilding: corporate logos in your fictional world.

‘I’ve always been enthralled by the real-world 17th century example of graphic design present in the logo of the Dutch East India Co. (“Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie”). Almost everyone in the Star Wars fandom knows which of these is the Empire and which is the Rebellion, though probably not as many would recognize Kuat Drive Yards (the Empire’s contracted builder for Star Destroyers) and their obvious Triforce-ripoff logo. And don’t forget taverns and their fine ales, both of which often have clever names and logos to go with them. Good logo design pops up all the time in fiction, so let’s talk about “Logos”.

‘Tell us about an organization in your world and what their logo looks like. Where do people see this logo? Does it have a special meaning behind the symbology? What does the average person think of when they see it? I think you’re more likely to win if you can work up a logo in Photoshop or even MS Paint, but if you’re restricted to text, be sure to paint a vibrant word picture! And if you want to come up with a tavern name to make up a logo for, there’s /u/drouu’s tavern generator at http://donjon.bin.sh/fantasy/inn/.

My response? Let’s go to the pub!

Green Goblin label. After a picture by eddster (Eddie Rich), stock.xchnge 766383

Leo Henderson gave up all pretence at sleep, and got up and put on his greatcoat in order to go out for a smoke. Out on the street the air was still chilly, but at this northern latitude the sun still poked through from behind the looming tenements of Syevirmetyevo. Drunk soldiers, the liberating army, staggered down the street, stumbling over the cobbles and swearing in five different languages.

“Nice night for a walk,” came a voice from behind. “There’s a nip on Kubitskaya which has some pale ale in from the south.”

Leo indicated that he was still in his pyjamas and slippers.

“So? It’s not exactly cold or wet. We’re not on the Kila now.”

Nev Haymarket would have got naked out of a bath if there was booze in the offing. “All right,” Leo agreed.

Nev allowed him to at least get boots and outdoor trousers on, but agitated for Leo to hurry up before the supplies were scavenged by the hundreds of other soldiers in the city.

Kubitskaya was off the beaten track a bit, in an area of working class housing badly hit by the original attack on the city three years before. Every other building was uninhabitable, but nevertheless, smoke indicated that people were trying to bring old stoves back into use. Women were dressed in gaudy silk dresses that didn’t fit them, and some men, both military and civilians, mistook one or two younger women for prostitutes. A well-timed punch from an angry husband laid one man low as they passed. Grizzled old peasants, seeking the safety of the city from the lawless countryside full of bandits, had scavenged top hats and tail-coats from the wardrobes of the Lenks and were showing off, parodying their occupiers and liberators alike. The nip itself was crowded with their compatriots thirsty for their own tipple after months of standard-issue vodka that could have stripped paint off a wall and samogon that had caused a fair few non-combat injuries.

On arrival at the pub, the ale ended up, disappointingly to the beer connoisseur Nev, to be kegs of a commercial brand, Green Goblin. He grumbled and called it “horse piss” but still drank willingly. A group of hungry Krovot civilians, probably displaced peasants, hung around the entrance, beseeching the eager drinkers for a shield to buy a few slices of bread.

Bottles of vodka were also on sale in the nip, the sister brand produced by the same concern, Golden Dragon. This crate was labelled Zloty Smok, the Salvat-language version. Like most mass-produced brands, it lacked the punch of samogon, but was less likely to make you blind.

Nev dug him in the side as Leo fished his coins out of his pocket. “Don’t give it ’them. They’ll just spend it on booze.”

As far as he was concerned, why shouldn’t they get drunk? Better than their current, rather horrifically sober, state.

Dragon image used courtesy of martinno (Martin Rotovnik), stock.xchng, 297023.

The Ambush

This month’s /r/fantasywriters writing competition wasn’t posted until yesterday, to give us writers the challenge of writing to a tight deadline (the submission thread goes up on 26 December) and to a very tight word limit – 300 words.

This is my submission, 300 words exactly.

The Ambush

Scouting through the delta swampland was something assigned to the lowest, most expendable grunts. Corporal Solinski knew that Lieutenant Staunton, back in his nice cabin in Putyanovka, was taking advantage of the peasants’ gratitude on being liberated, while he, his ne’er-do-well brother-in-law Kurak and several other under-enthusiastic miscreants were out here, shivering in the mud under the surveillance of Lenkish soldiers. They hadn’t found anything of consequence, and were about to go home in disgrace.

“Bloody w—- of a goddess!” Kurak yelled from the riverbank.

Solinski stalked over, angry at this unnecessary noise and expecting to find that Kurak had fallen in.

Branches snapped nearby, and the other men fell in behind him and took out their guns, just in case. He put his hand on his pistol – and his mouth fell open.

A mammoth, bark-brown creature stood before them in the river, dripping with moss and leaf-litter,  with a nose like a dripping gutter-pipe and mis-shapen, green teeth in a partly-open mouth.

It waded towards them as if every step was painful.

Kurak was cowering on the bank, hiding his face. The creature, some sort of forest spirit but clearly visible to them all, stepped out of the river, reaching out its hands towards Kurak, each one big enough to grasp a man’s torso in its fist. Solinski heard a burst of gunfire, and instinctively fired his own pistol towards it, blinded by fear.

He heard his brother-in-law’s screams cut off with a thud and a whimper. A knot of enemy soldiers had launched themselves upon them as they had stood insensible with fear at the creature’s appearance.

The creature looked reproachfully at them and shambled onwards unhurt.

Solinski knew what the enemy would do to him if he didn’t run, so he took off back towards the road.

This 1906 illustration depicts a Russian leshy or lesnik, a forest spirit akin to an ent but a little more humanoid in form.

The Old Man of the Forest